floor

[joel]

I stroll through forest arbor paths, advance
to find a block of wood in which to sculpt
the pretty preciousness of you—and while
I trip unburied roots and powder earth
forsaken leaves and entertain the bells
of winds through twisted twiggy steeples, I
behold: no wood is worthy, good for you;
and yet their failure knots and grains are true
as what would match your beauty. Why
delight in sculptured mirrors more than swells
of imperfection, perfectly for birth
aligned to give you relevance? I smile
and stop: it’s not your guarantee I’ll sculpt,
but wooden floors as pedestals of chance.

[mnaz]

One must trust nature, in the end.